


scenes and things unseen

by skuls



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Post MAG 154, Post-Canon Fix-It, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), short tumblr sourced drabbles that are too short to post individually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29946366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuls/pseuds/skuls
Summary: A series of prompts and drabbles cross-posted from Tumblr that are too short to be posted on their own.(1. prompt: tender2. prompt: trembling hands3. prompt: drastic)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. microfic prompt #24: tender

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a collection of tumblr prompts that were too short to post here individually -- the original drabbles come from the microfic prompts (found here: https://ghostbustermelanieking.tumblr.com/post/645131720291762176/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story), but i will probably archive other, different stuff here later as time goes on. full credit for the prompts goes to the creator! these can all be found on my tumblr at @ghostbustermelanieking.

Jon and Martin sit on the couch. Jon is reading and Martin is scribbling frantically in his notebook (with the fountain pen Jon had bought him at a store they’d visited in Edinburgh, the one he’d picked up and thought, _Martin,_ and snuck into their pile of books at the register, and then given it to him in the car), and they have been in Scotland for four days. Jon can’t stop turning it all over in his head—the fact that they’re here, that they’re safe, and they’re together, and Martin is whole and all right and on the couch here next to him. It’s a struggle even to focus on the book, to not just put it down and stare at Martin, the wholeness of him on the couch next to Jon. 

Jon bites back a smile, staring down at his book. It’s too much, sometimes, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. 

Martin sets down the pen, puts the notebook onto his lap and flips through a few pages. His free hand falls to the couch between them. Jon’s stomach turns a little, looking at Martin’s hand out of the corner of his eye (bitten nails, callused fingers, ink stains on the knuckles). His hand moves, almost unconsciously, onto the cushion near Martin’s, a tentative motion in consideration of whether or not he should take Martin’s hand. (Four days, five if you count the trip and before, in London, and he’s still uncertain, still hesitant to take Martin’s hand. They’d held hands all the way out of the Lonely; every time Jon had tried to let go, hesitant and paranoid that Martin didn’t want this— _I really loved you—_ Martin hadn’t let go.) It should be easy; they’ve ran away to Scotland, they are sharing a bed every night, and yesterday (a bad morning, fog in the kitchen and Martin’s eyes going gray) they’d hugged for nearly an hour, clinging to each other right in the middle of the breakfast nook. It should be so easy for Jon to reach over and take Martin’s hand. But Jon can still only hesitate. 

He’s still contemplating it when Martin, absently, reaches over, slides his hand over Jon’s and tangles their fingers together. His hand is warm, and Jon bites back a wider smile at the sudden contact, shifts his hand to make the position less awkward. Martin hasn’t looked away from his notebook, but when Jon looks over him, he thinks Martin is smiling a little, too. 

Something warm blooms in Jon’s chest, uncontrollable, and he can’t hold back the smile anymore, can’t hold back the uncontrollable tug towards Martin: a tether, anchoring him to the ground. He shuts his book and pushes it aside, shifts his grip on Martin’s hand and lifts it, heavy, to press a kiss to the back of it. 

Martin’s face twitches, endearingly, and he shuts his notebook and turns to look at Jon. “What are you doing?” he says—not sounding upset, or displeased, or anything like that, just… somewhere akin to amused, and confused, and astonished all at once. 

Jon doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand. He presses his nose to the soft skin of Martin’s wrist, says, “I think that should be rather obvious, Martin.”

“You seem to have acquired possession of my hand,” says Martin, his voice shaking a little. He’s looking at Jon with some increasing soft emotion written all over his face, and the tug in Jon’s chest only increases. “A-and I don’t mind, really, it’s just… I’ll need it back eventu—oh,” he says, faintly, as Jon presses another kiss to the inside of his wrist, just over the pulse point. “ _Oh_." 

Jon squeezes Martin’s hand, lifts his eyes to meet Martin’s. "Is… is this all right?” he says, and Martin nods, immediately, in a frantic sort of way, and Jon thinks of all the months Martin has spent alone. 

He kisses Martin’s wrist again, and then his palm. His knuckles, the pads of his fingers, one by one. Martin’s hand is shaking. “Jon,” he says, “ _Jon_ ,” and when Jon looks back, his eyes are wet. 

Jon grips Martin’s hand in both of his, momentarily terrified. “Martin—Martin, I can stop…”

Martin shakes his head in that frantic way again. He lets go of Jon’s hand, but then his arms are going around Jon, and he’s saying, “Is this okay?” and Jon’s nodding, too, and then Martin is pulling Jon onto his lap. Jon clutches at the front of Martin’s shirt, finds Martin’s other hand and kisses that, too. Martin’s hand cups the side of Jon’s face, rubbing his thumb over Jon’s cheek, nudging Jon’s face up and whispering, “Okay?” and then peppering kisses all over Jon’s face, and Jon is laughing a little—unable to help it—uncontrollably happy and joyful and loving Martin. Martin kisses his forehead, his hairline, his eyelids and his cheeks, and then Jon is kissing his face, too, his nose and his chin, and he loves Martin, he loves Martin more than he can ever say. 

Later, burrowed under Martin’s arm and into Martin’s side, leaning into Martin where Martin’s mouth is resting warmly against the top of his head, he says, “I _am_ keeping this hand, you know. You’ll have to fill out a request if you want it back." 

Martin snorts with muffled laughter. "Oh, _really?”_

“Yes, _really_ ,” says Jon, and he pulls Martin’s hand up to kiss the back of it again. Tucks it close to his chest and doesn’t let go. Above him, he feels Martin press a kiss to the top of his head. 


	2. microfic prompt #15: trembling hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s about time i wrote a post canon fix it au. warning for mentions of trauma/nightmares, and the events of s5

There are months of nightmares, after the world turns back. Months of sleepless nights, trembling as they hold onto each other in the night, months of waking up shouting or screaming, reaching for the other. They’re reliving every horrible thing they saw in the apocalypse, every moment they thought they wouldn’t be coming back. (Martin disappearing in the Lonely house, Martin with a blade at his throat, leaving behind a faint scar that matches Jon’s. Daisy dragging Jon off by the leg. Jon trapped and floating at the top of the Panopticon, writhing there in Jonah’s place. Martin suspended above the cavern between worlds. That horrible moment after it was all over, the Archives burning and Jonah dead, where they couldn’t find each other; they’d thought the other was dead.)

It’s worse for Jon, most of the time, Martin thinks. He saw so much of the torment every person in the world was facing, so much more than Martin ever did. They both have their moments, both taking the chance to comfort and lean on the other, but Jon seems to wake up screaming so much more often than Martin. 

(They are happy, otherwise, finally happy, as happy as they can be. They’ve gone back to Martin’s flat—there isn’t anywhere else to go, Jon doesn’t have a place anymore—and they’ve been working on making it a home again, after months of the Lonely turning it into a hollow, impersonal place. Georgie and Melanie and Basira have all survived, have gone back home or found a new place, and they all see each other often as they can. Neither of them have a job yet, have even really thought about it; they’ll find something eventually, Martin knows, but they have _somehow_ been awarded severance pay by the Institute, and that should be enough to support them both for a while. For now, they can spend time doing all the things they loved to do during that brief time in the safehouse: going to bed early and sleeping late, drinking good tea, cooking breakfast and dinner, reading books and writing poetry, waking up together every single morning. It’s more than Martin ever thought they’d get, towards the end, and he’s unbelievably grateful for it. They are happy—although the trauma lingers anyway.)

Martin wakes up one night to find Jon’s half of the bed empty. Panic seizes habitually in his chest and he starts to call out for Jon, reaching across the bed frantically and only touching empty sheets, until he sees the light on in the bathroom. Hears the shaking breaths coming from the other side of the door. 

Martin climbs out of bed quietly and pushes open the door, gently as he can. Jon’s bent in front of the sink, gripping the edge of it with both hands, his head turned down so Martin can’t see his face in the mirror. “Jon?” Martin whispers, voice gentle, in an attempt not to startle him. 

Jon jumps a little anyway, his head shooting up. His eyes are red in the mirror, tear tracks down his face. “Jon, are you all right?” says Martin, his stomach turning with worry. Jon usually doesn’t leave when he has a nightmare, usually just reaches for Martin. He’s almost nervous at finding Jon gone, finding him hiding here, wondering what in the world could have prompted that.

“Martin,” says Jon, his voice breaking. “I-it’s nothing. Go back to bed.”

Martin hesitates, leaning against the bathroom door. “I-if you need to be alone, I’ll leave you alone,” he says, finally. “B-but, Jon, you… you don’t seem like…” He doesn’t know what to do, but he doesn’t feel like he should leave Jon alone. He reaches out slowly, his hand trembling, to touch Jon’s hip. The way Jon leans into the touch, in a panicked sort of way, confirms it; Martin steps a little closer and slips his arms slowly around Jon from behind, presses his face against Jon’s back and kisses the crest of his shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. 

Jon takes a sharp breath, lifts his hands to cover Martin’s. His hands are shaking, too. He says, “I’m sorry, Martin, I… I just…" 

"Don’t apologize, Jon, please.” Martin presses a kiss to the side of Jon’s neck. 

“No, it's… it’s silly, it was just a _nightmare,_ I shouldn’t have gotten so upset, it’s just…” Jon takes another shaky breath, links their fingers and squeezes Martin’s hands. “I-I don’t want to lose you, Martin.”

It’s Martin’s turn to take a sharp breath, to tense from where he’s holding Jon. Jon turns in Martin’s arms, reaching up to touch Martin’s face. “I… I know we’re here, and we’re safe and we’re happy, but I… th-there was times towards the end I thought we’d never have this. Th-that it wasn’t _possible_ to have this. I… I thought _I_ wouldn’t survive, I thought it was inevitable.” Martin winces, his eyes shutting. Jon strokes a thumb over his cheek, the pads beneath his eyes, wiping tears away as they fall. “B-but Martin, I… I tried to tell myself all this time that it didn’t matter if I died, t-to save the world, because it meant you’d live. If you were safe, it didn't… a-and towards the end there, I thought…” His voice breaks. A tear streaks down his cheek. 

“It’s okay,” Martin tries. “I-it's…”

Jon takes a sharp breath, rises on tiptoe to press his forehead to Martin’s. “It’s silly. I know. I-I just… I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to _lose you,_ Martin, I…" 

Martin leans forward to kiss him; he can taste the salty wetness on both of their lips. He leans into Jon’s shaking palm and says, "Y-you won’t lose me, Jon. You _won’t._ I-I promise… with everything in me, I—I _promise_ you won’t lose me.”

Jon takes another unsteady breath and tries for a smile. Martin catches his hand (still shaking, both of their hands shaking) and says, “You _won’t,”_ and presses a kiss to the base of his ring finger. It’s as much of a promise as he can offer, right now, but it doesn’t mean he means it any less. 

Jon’s breathing goes sharp all over again, and he leans in to kiss Martin another time, their wet faces pressed together and their hands tangled, steadying each other, right there. 


	3. microfic prompt #11: drastic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve been waiting for a good opportunity to write a scenario like this lol. this is a mag 154 au; warning as such for discussion of blinding oneself (not actually depicted), and for canon-typical s4 jon self loathing.
> 
> to clarify: this is a fix it au. jon will be able to blind himself and he will be able to live without the eye bc it’s my au and i said so.

“I should’ve known,” says Martin, “that it would be something like this.” He laughs a little, bitterly. “Nothing simple, right? No easy way out?”

“That’s never been how anything is for us,” says Jon. “You know that.” He laughs hollowly, too; his head thunks softly against the stone wall of the tunnels. “If it were easy, we all would’ve left a long time ago.” (He tells himself, sternly, that this is true.) 

They’ve been down here nearly an hour; no chance of Elias seeing them down here. (One of the recorders is running, has been since just before Jon heard the pound of footsteps heading down the hall into the Archives. He’d known immediately that something had to be happening; Melanie had left for the night, Daisy and Basira had gone out, so it’d just been Jon in the Archives, for once, a rare enough occurrence. He thought maybe one of them came back, but he wasn’t sure why the tapes would want to hear that. And then Martin had burst through the door, panting and ashy, his eyes fixing directly on Jon, and he’d said, _Yes._

Jon, barely daring to believe it, had said, _Yes?_ and Martin said, _Yes,_ said, _Christ—yes, Jon, I’ll do it, I’ll go with you,_ staring at Jon almost like he expected Jon to take the offer back, to say he hadn’t really meant it. Jon had strode across the room instead, moving to embrace Martin in a desperate hug—tight enough to make Jon question the status of his remaining ribs. And when Martin had sagged into the embrace, limp like a puppet with cut strings, Jon knew that he had meant his answer.)

They’re here in the tunnels, now, sitting with their backs against the wall, passing a bottle of rum Daisy stashed under the cots back and forth. They’re supposed to be discussing strategy, how they’re going to blind themselves (where they’ll go, what they’ll do after), but they’ve mostly just been talking in circles. Stuck in the quiet awe of what they’re about to do, and the fact that they’re doing it together—this is the most Jon has talked to Martin since he woke up, and the reality of that is overwhelming. 

“I think Melanie is going to do it,” says Jon, just for something to say—and because it is the truth. “So… we’ll have some company, I suppose.” He issues a weak little laugh. “If… if she even _wants_ to see us after this.” He has his doubts. He knows Melanie has a lot of anger towards him, and he knows the majority of it is earned. 

“I… I haven’t even talked to Melanie since… before you woke up,” Martin says softly. “Jesus. It's… it’s been that long." 

"She deserves to get out,” says Jon. “I… I hope this is a way for her, too." 

Martin makes a loud sniffling sound, and Jon turns abruptly to see him wiping his eyes. "I… I think Tim would’ve done it. If he’d know,” he says, voice thick with tears that haven’t fallen yet. “I… I wish… I wish we’d found out about this sooner. Given him a way out, too.”

Jon’s throat closes up a little at the mention of Tim—he’s barely been able to think of Tim at all over these past six months. Unable to make it past the reality that Tim is dead because of him, because _he_ brought him to the Archives… this just feels like another way he’s failed Tim, in the end. He nods a little, looking back out at the tunnels, says, “Yes, I—I wish that, too,” and is unable to go any further, his voice breaking into pieces. Tim, Sasha— _both_ are dead because of him, because he couldn’t save them. At least now he’s found something that might save Melanie and Martin—that might even save him, even though he doesn’t deserve it. 

Martin makes a sound of dissension, almost like he _knows_ what Jon is thinking, and scoots closer until their shoulders are pressed together. “We… we can live in my flat,” he says, his voice still thick. “If you want. I-it’s gotten worse, since… I-I mean, it isn’t in the best shape, a-and there’s only the one bedroom, b-but…” He offers another little laugh—gallows humor. “I can promise you that there _aren’t_ any worms.”

“Oh,” says Jon, biting back laughter of his own. “Oh, well—good. That—that sounds lovely, Martin." 

There’s a moment of silence then, a long moment of just the wet, eerie sounds of the tunnels, and of Martin’s soft arm against his. Jon swallows and adds, "W-we’ll be all right, Martin. We will. O-once the pain and the healing has passed, we… I really think we’ll be all right.” _Happy,_ a part of his mind suggests, daringly. Maybe they will be able to be happy. 

“Do you really believe that?” Martin says—and there’s an edge there, something sanded off by the Lonely, remnants that haven’t left yet—but there’s also something genuine. A real question. 

“I do,” says Jon. He doesn’t Know—he can’t Know, his mind takes a sharp swerve every time he broaches the subject—but he has a feeling. Something almost like hope. “I really do.”

Martin must lean a little, because their shoulders press together; he says, “N-not to rehash wh-what we said… earlier… but… why _me,_ Jon? W-why not Basira and Daisy, o-or… we haven’t talked in months, just… why _me?_ " 

Jon could say any number of things. _Daisy and Basira didn’t want to do it,_ or _There’s no one else who would WANT to run away with me, I can’t think of a single other person,_ or _I’m in love with you, I should’ve told you sooner, I’m so sorry._ But he doesn’t say any of those things. He says, "M-Martin, there isn't…” He takes a deep breath. Presses his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes. “There isn’t a… a _single other_ person I would want to do this with,” he says quietly. “It's… it’s just you. _Only_ you." 

Martin makes a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, and it is so _Martin,_ so familiar in a way Jon hasn’t seen since he woke up, that his chest seizes a little. "Okay,” he says, “okay.” He reaches down between them and, tentatively, takes Jon’s hand.


End file.
